


The Lonely Scientist

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes gets by with a little help from a friend.    (Adapted fairy tale:  "The Elves and the Shoemaker")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely Scientist

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Ickis77 because he is one of my favorite people and he needed a little cheering up.
> 
> This is an adapted fairy tale, written for the Let's Write Sherlock Tumbler Challenge (Challenge Two). It is based off of The Grimm Brothers' ["The Elves and the Shoemaker"](http://www.authorama.com/grimms-fairy-tales-39.html).
> 
> So many thanks to Fiona_Fawkes for the beta and encouragement and asking all the hard questions--any remaining mistakes are all my own fault.

Once upon a time in a small, extremely cluttered flat in Central London, there lived a scientist.  He was absolutely brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that the police often called upon him to help with their most difficult cases.  Because he was very smart, the rest of the world had trouble understanding him, and most of the people that knew him thought him absolutely barking mad, but he wasn’t.  He was simply very lonely. His only friend was the smiling skull he kept on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.

The skull was not quite so brilliant as the scientist, but the scientist talked to it anyway; he didn’t have anyone else who would listen.  “Yorick,” the scientist said to the skull.  “I’ve almost got it, but these samples are all wrong!  It’s that sack of _rocks_ that call themselves a forensics team—can’t even do simple fingernail scrapings correctly!  What can I possibly do with _this_?” 

The scientist pushed away from his microscope in disgust, storming into the living room.  At the open window, he shouted at the morning commuters (had he worked through the night again?), at the delivery people and honking cars that were making so much noise, he could hardly _think_. 

“Shut _up_!” he shouted to the street below.  “Shut up, Shut _up_!  The lot of you, _for God’s sake_!” 

The only answer came in the form of, “Oh, go ahead and _piss off_ , you nutter,” that one particularly charming passer-by shouted back up at him. 

He slammed the window shut and pulled at his hair, sending his curls, dark and wild, into all directions at once (and if Yorick could say anything, he might have commented that this made the scientist look every bit as mad as everyone thought he was).  The scientist spun around the living room as he paced, grinding bits of biscuit into the carpet under his heel, displaced air sending sheets of paper flying off the desk and a storm of dust motes floating into the beam of sunlight coming in at the window.  The breeze from his movement also caught at the hem of the blue dressing gown he wore over his clothes; it went swirling around him like ocean waves as he dropped bonelessly to the sofa, suddenly quite uninterested in doing anything at all. 

He looked pointedly to his friend on the mantle, but Yorick didn’t have an answer for him.  “I’m beginning to think you’re just as useless as Anderson,” the scientist drawled before sighing deeply, and then he quickly grew so bored that he fell asleep right there on the sofa.

The scientist rarely found time to sleep properly, thinking it nothing more than a supreme waste of time. So whenever he did succumb to this particular bodily urge, he fell into the kind of sleep that drug him under so thoroughly and so quickly that little else but an extremely loud explosion would rouse him until his body was quite ready to be awake again. 

When the scientist opened his eyes, the light that filtered through the living room curtains was no longer sunlight, but dim lamplight coming in from the street.  He blinked at the ceiling and rubbed at his eyes.  He’d been asleep much longer than he liked.  He yawned and stretched before sitting up fully, hitting the switch to turn on the lamp as he did so.  When he finally noticed the room surrounding him, he stifled a gasp.

He was actually able see the living room rug, could trace the _entire_ pattern of it.  Well, almost all of it, except for where it was covered by furniture, which had also been cleared and cleaned.  Where there were once piles and piles of newspapers and case reports, crime scene photographs and half-drunk mugs of coffee and tea, there were now freshly hoovered carpets and shining floorboards and an impeccably tidied desk and coffee table.  Immediately, he thought of Mrs Hudson, his landlady.  She sometimes came in to do some light cleaning (though she was not his housekeeper, mind), but she usually waited until the scientist was off helping the police with a case.  And she had never disturbed quite so much as this! 

The scientist began to grow increasingly unhappy that someone had managed to be in his flat without his permission or his knowledge (the scientist was so very rarely surprised by anything).  He examined everything, searching for any clue that would lead him to the identity of his mysterious intruder.  He looked _very_ closely (the scientist knew how to see and make true meaning from little details that most people could not be bothered to so much as notice), but he could not find even _one clue_ that would lead him to the person who had broken into his home. 

However, after his thorough investigation, the scientist did note that nothing of importance had been _misplaced_ at all.  Rather, all of his things had been stacked and organised—his case files and crime scene photographs had been slotted into labeled folders and stacked neatly upon the desk (in alphabetical order, current case laid out separately, easily accessible), his mugs and plates had been washed and put in their proper places in the cupboards.  The newspapers were stacked neatly by their dates in a waist-high column along the wall, and his science equipment had been cleaned and straightened but not altered in any fashion that would compromise the experiment itself.  His documentation had been straightened and filed much like the case notes, all in labeled folders, all in perfect order.  What was even more remarkable, was that the notes of his current experiment had been aligned and sorted in such a way that the scientist could very easily see the solution to the problem he had been having with it prior to his overlong kip on the sofa.

This was perhaps the strangest case of housebreaking that the scientist had ever encountered. He had no idea who had done it or how it had happened.  Locked-room mysteries had always been one of his favourite types of puzzle, and this was even more; this was something _new_.   The scientist clasped his hands together under his chin and smiled; he was _interested_.

=====

John had to wait three more days for the scientist to sleep again.  He knew this by the date on the newspaper scattered over the coffee table; it was the newest date of the lot.  The rest of the week’s papers lay much as they were the last time he’d been here, strewn all about the living room, covering photos and case paperwork and cold cups of coffee, some even with—bits—floating in.  One had even been covering something that looked like might have been an actual human nose.  John could tell by the state of the flat and the notes that he’d read that the scientist was not a bad man, just a messy one ( _brilliant_ , yes, but very, _very_ messy), so he took the nose into the kitchen where he would put it with the rest of the science things to be sorted when he got to that room.

Hands on his hips, John sighed.  The scientist might be a lost cause, a hopeless case, but it wasn’t his job to judge, and besides—he rather enjoyed looking through the notes and things as he sorted everything out.  Wonderful stories, these.  He briefly wondered if anyone had ever bothered to write them down; he reckoned a lot of people might find them just as interesting as he did himself.

The scientist was sleeping again on the sofa in his day clothes, one hand resting on his stomach, the other behind his head.  He had a bit of drool coming from the corner of his mouth, and he snored—not loudly, but soundly for sure, and John smiled at him.  He wondered what the scientist must be like when he was awake.  He never did get to see any of the people he helped when they were awake.  That had never really bothered him much until now, until the scientist. 

The scientist was just so fascinating—even his mess was brilliant, and John very much wished they could speak, that he could ask the questions he had about what he’d seen and what he’d read.  He took one last look at the scientist’s sleeping form, at the curls tumbling over his forehead, catching now and again in his fluttering eyelashes, at the gentle rise and fall of his chest, at the slope of his cheekbones.  John wished he could tell the colour of his eyes.

He shook his head; this was no time for a break.  The scientist’s sleep might be an enchanted one, but he didn’t have all the time in the world.  He made his way into the kitchen to sort through the experiment there, this one apparently having something to do with acids and human cartilage.  The notes were, as he expected, rather interesting, and he found himself with a question or two.  He didn’t see any harm in posing them, so he wrote them on a yellow post-it note next to the scientist’s own scribbles and jots.  He was only sorry that he wouldn’t be around so the scientist could explain them to him in person. 

=====

When the scientist awoke, his flat was once again tidy.  And, once again, the scientist looked everywhere, even getting down on his hands and knees with his lens, searching for clues.  He searched the gleaming living room, the sparkling bathroom, even his freshly aired-out bedroom, and _nothing_.  As he got to the kitchen, he was positive there must be something there, some fingerprint or smudge or fibre—something pointing to the identity of his very own housebreaking flat-cleaner.  He climbed on the counters to look above the cupboards (no fingerprints or footprints or dust of any sort), he sniffed the grout for specific cleaning fluid (nothing, just lemon), and he even pulled out the refrigerator, but no.  Nothing.  Not one clue.

Feeling somewhat defeated, the scientist did the one thing that had a chance of making him feel better—he went to check on his experiment.  Science.  Logic.  He needed his world to make sense.  As before, his equipment had been cleaned but the experiment was uncompromised.  His notes were ordered, and… And! 

Atop his own freshly orgainsed notes, there was another piece of paper, a yellow post-it note covered in the scrawling handwriting he might expect to see on a doctor’s prescription pad.  Very interesting.  The paper came from the pad on his own desk, so there was nothing to glean from that.  He analysed the ink (generic biro, unhelpful).  Then, he studied the handwriting. 

The scientist wished he had more information by which to narrow a suspect pool even further, but in the end, he wasn’t left with nothing.  At the very least, he knew this:  his housebreaker was a left-handed writer with exceptionally poor penmanship.  What he didn’t know was if this careless scrawl was normal for his housebreaker or simply an anomaly caused by the obvious time constraints of housebreaking.  The questions themselves showed that his intruder had, at the very least, an above average comprehension of the life sciences.  Likely, his housebreaker is or was a member of the medical profession.  

He read the note once more.  The questions were not bad ones.  In fact, the second question was a _very good_ one indeed.  He checked his notes again before re-checking the slide under the microscope under a tighter magnification.  Was this even possible?  Had his housebreaker led him in the right direction for a second time? 

The scientist returned to the living room where he lifted his phone from the coffee table.  He quickly typed and sent a text message to the detective inspector with whom he often worked at Scotland Yard: _It was the dog-walker._

He clearly needed to find out who this intruder was.  The only problem in that was this—the scientist wasn’t sure what he should do if (when) he found out.  Since the housebreakings, his work had been easier, better.  Even more than the clever arrangement of his notes and the excellent questions that had led him to the solution of a mystery (twice), the overall organization had helped immensely, especially when the scientist needed to cross-reference a former case or experiment.  He was much less frustrated by the tedious searching and rummaging about he’d had to do in the past.  When the scientist thought about it, he had to admit—this had been one of the best weeks he’d had in a very long time, and for the first time in ages, he felt something twist in his chest, something that felt remarkably like _gratitude_.

A moment later, the scientist’s phone beeped with an incoming message, and before he could think any more about his housebreaker, he was dashing out the door with his coat, off to help the police catch a dangerous criminal.

=====

The scientist sat on his chair, his cup of tea cold and forgotten on the floor next to him.  He steepled his hands under his chin while he sought to solve the problem of the housebreaking cleaner.  He started with the obvious:  his housebreaker only ever came when he slept.  Clearly, he needed to create the illusion that he was asleep. 

He set about that evening to get ready for bed.  The scientist cleaned his teeth and washed his face.  He shut down his computer and plugged his mobile in to charge.  He was almost certain that this is what the normal people of London did as they readied themselves for sleep.  Satisfied with his performance, he turned out all the lights and sat quietly in his chair, waiting for the intruder.  

He waited and waited, sitting silently in his chair until the sun came streaming through the windows and the street below came alive again with the sounds of morning traffic.  The intruder never came.  The scientist was confused and extremely frustrated (for he really was very smart and therefore quite unaccustomed to the feeling of confusion). 

Perhaps, the scientist thought, it was a simple matter of finding a stealthier hiding spot.  So after a full day of talking to nearly every poultry supplier in the city in order track down one very special bird that would lead him to a jewel thief, he returned to his flat with a precious stone in his pocket and feathers _everywhere_. 

Inside, he shed his coat with a flourish, sending even more feathers fluttering softly about the room.  He ignored them as he sent an email to the stone’s rightful owner to let her know he had found it and that she could pick it up in the morning, and then with nothing else to do, he played a song on his violin before going through the entire bedtime routine again. 

This time, however, the scientist did not sit in his comfortable chair to wait for his mystery housebreaker.  Rather, he hid behind the curtains in the living room window.  They were faded from years of sunlight exposure but made from a material heavy enough to hide him well—decent enough cover for a night-time stakeout. 

The scientist waited again.  He waited until his feet were aching and his back began to protest most unpleasantly.  When the sunlight coming through the glass grew warm enough to send a bead of sweat between his shoulder blades, he surrendered, coming out from his hiding place to a flat just as littered with feathers and mugs and papers as it was when he turned out the lights all those hours ago.

He was all out of ideas as he flicked the switch on the kettle.  He made himself a cup of coffee and took it with him to his bedroom.  He had spent far too much time in the living room lately, and just the look of it was putting him off.  He needed to get off of his feet, just for a few moments.  He hoped he would be able to think of new ideas when his body stopped aching all over.

=====

It had been another three days before John could get back to the scientist’s flat on Baker Street.  Since John simply could not enter until everyone in the house was asleep, he knew the scientist must not sleep nearly enough.  John wondered if that was the only area in the scientist’s life and health that he neglected.  There were always several cups of coffee and tea, many of them only half-drunk, and there was the occasional plate to clear, but those were mostly covered in debris from experiments rather than food.  In the fridge, the scientist kept his more delicate samples and perhaps the odd carton of milk or lonely take away container, but there really was very little evidence that the scientist ate enough either.

Again, John found himself sighing at the scientist’s sleeping form.  He was holding his body at an odd angle on his side, and his face was drawn tight, even in sleep.  Was his scientist in pain?  John wondered what it was that kept him up for three days at a go.  At least this time, the scientist had made it to a proper bed and hadn’t simply dropped to the sofa.  It did make John’s work a bit easier, less distracting; he could tidy without the scientist in his near-constant line of sight—and this time there had been all those feathers to deal with.  John searched but couldn’t find any notes that pointed him in the direction of an experiment or a case to explain them, and he found himself once more wishing he could talk to the scientist, ask him about the feathers, ask him when was the last time he ate a decent meal.

Sleep was such a precious thing.  This was always most evident to John when he was called to the military base in Afghanistan.  With all those men and women in one place, someone was almost always bound to be awake, so he didn’t get to help there as often as he would have liked.  But once a fortnight or so, there would be at least one building or tent that would allow him to enter—every occupant sleeping soundly (or simply away for enough time), and he could do his work. 

The base in Afghanistan was one of his favourite places to go because it was _more_ than just his regular work.  Oh, he liked his work wherever he was sent (he loved helping people),  but the base was exciting in a different way; he had to listen closely for alarms and what was happening outside—it would not do for his soldiers to sleep through an emergency or an attack.  There were even times John had to leave early (his own work unfinished) so the soldiers could do their jobs—good work, much like the work of the scientist, and John was happy to be able to help.

It did not take nearly as long this time to finish up as it had in the past.  Even with all the feathers, John’s work from the times he’d been here before had sped things along nicely.  Usually, this would please John because it would allow him to help someone else more quickly, but John found himself hesitating to leave. 

The scientist snuffled in his sleep and turned from his side onto his back, one arm flopping over into the empty space beside him.  He was in a tee shirt this time, proper pajamas, and John’s eyes followed the lines of the muscles in the scientist’s arms, long and sinewy down through his forearms.  John noticed the marks on the insides of the scientist’s elbows and found that seeing them made him rather sad, perhaps even a bit angry.  He knew what they were because he also helped at a surgery on the other side of London where much of the literature there and many of the patients’ files explained them and the damage they caused to a person’s body and mind. 

He looked a bit closer, longing to run his finger over the marks to check them more closely, but he knew that was forbidden.  He was not allowed to touch.  If he touched, the scientist would wake, and John would be stuck here, unable to return to his own life and the rest of his work.  As much as he wanted to do it, John kept his fingers at a safe distance while he continued looking at the marks.  They all seemed to be old and well-healed, and while John didn’t like them being there at all, he sighed in relief. 

The breath he exhaled stirred the scientist’s clothes just a bit, causing him to stir once again in his sleep.  The scientist mumbled and inhaled, and then the most remarkable thing happened:  The scientist smiled, crinkling the edges of his eyes and sides of his face, making him even lovelier than he had ever been.  The smile faded nearly as quickly as it had come, and John pulled even further away.

John wouldn’t allow himself to leave until he had done everything he could think of to help his mad scientist, so he went to the kitchen where he made some tea and some toast and wrote another note on the yellow note pad.  He placed the tea things on a tray along with a plate of toast and two paracetamol and set it all on the scientist’s beside table.  John’s magic would keep everything fresh until the scientist woke up. 

=====

Quite some time later, the scientist awoke feeling more rested than he could ever remember.  He knew before even opening his eyes that his housebreaker had been in again.  The place _smelled_ clean.  When turned his head to check the clock on the nightstand, there was a tray with a steaming pot of tea and fresh toast.  The scientist’s face fell; he must have _just_ missed him.

Interesting, the scientist thought, that he had just assigned a gender to his housebreaker.  He, as a rule, did not begin to theorise before he had solid data—that sort of practise was unwise bordering upon foolish.  Indeed, he could be wrong yet, but he did have _some_ data from which to begin.  There was something about the clean smell of his bedroom—more than clean (lemon, evergreen, but not the artificial perfumes in commercial cleaners—this was the smell brought in by the person himself).  It was warm like wool and fresh as air, and it was the crispness of bergamot.  This was _not_ the soft, powdery or flowery smell of a woman.  

He sat up, blinking, and reached for the pot of tea, pouring himself a generous cupful.  Perfect Earl Grey, heady and delicate at once, delicious.  He lifted the plate of toast, which also smelled divine, and that is when a yellow post-it note fluttered down to land on top of the duvet in his lap.  Had his housebreaker left him with more wonderful questions?  The scientist set down his plate of toast and lifted the note.  In the same messy script, he read—not a question, but advice? An order?

 _You_ _need to take better care of yourself.  Eat.  Sleep. And, stay away from the sodding needles—you’re much too brilliant to have been such an idiot._

If the exact same thing had been told to him by the scientist’s meddling brother, irritation would have prickled along every inch of his spine.  But at this, he found himself rather un-irritated.  In fact, he felt something like warmth blossom in his belly.  Someone was caring for him rather than trying to control him, and he was surprised by his own want to make his housebreaker happy in return.  He wanted to be better.

The scientist (desperately) wanted to _meet_ his intruder (in truth, he had never wanted anything more).  He began to devise a new plan.  Clearly, the intruder only came when he was well and truly asleep; there was apparently no getting around that.  So, he would sleep.  But, he would also set his alarm.  If he woke unexpectedly, he could catch his housebreaker in the middle of the act.  The scientist bit a corner of his toast, buttery and warm and drizzled with honey.  He smiled.

=====

To John’s surprise, he was back at the Baker Street flat in little more than one day’s time.  The scientist slept peacefully in his bedroom, and John set about to his work.  The place was still feather-free, and there were only a few things here and there to sort.  The place was lived-in but not impossible, and John felt a twinge of sadness that he wouldn’t be staying very long.  He liked being in the scientist’s flat.

On the desk, the scientist had written several notes about the case with all the feathers.  It was actually a very interesting one, about a clever (but not clever enough) jewel thief.  John read it all in awe—it was more than a case; it was an _adventure_.  The scientist had quite amazingly worked out the most convoluted series of events with the most bizarre string of clues.  With nothing left to do and an intense reluctance to leave, John sat at the desk and looked more closely at the notes.  His scientist’s name was Sherlock Holmes, and John wanted nothing more than to turn this remarkable adventure into a story. 

John booted up the scientist’s computer and began to type.  He started with the description of a rather ordinary hat that had come into the scientist’s possession, and from there went on to chronicle the truly exciting bits of the case.  Here and there, he would leave spaces with notes like _[How?]_ or _[Explain?]_ for the scientist, and he very much hoped that the scientist would fill them in, would show this story to someone else—perhaps put it in the newspaper or on the computer.  So many people would love to know how this extraordinary man was helping people.

John was surprised to find that he enjoyed typing up this story every bit as much as he enjoyed his normal work.  He’d been writing for well over an hour, though it felt like only minutes had passed.  Nearing the end, he agonized over the final paragraph, chewing on his thumbnail and searching for the words to say what he really meant.  He was in the middle of a sentence when he heard a very loud sound coming from the scientist’s mobile phone.  It was an alarm; the scientist was waking! 

Unable to finish what he’d begun, John disappeared from the Baker Street flat with a very quiet _pop_.

=====

The scientist sprung from his bed the moment his alarm went off.  Because his flat was rather small, it only took him a few quick and quiet footsteps before he was at the threshold of the living room.  Once there, he heard a soft sound much like a candle quickly being snuffed out.  He sniffed deeply but could not smell candle smoke.  He went carefully further, into the room, and he felt his shoulders drop when he once again found it empty.  It was, as he expected, gleaming and nice-smelling—the same evergreen and lemon, wool and bergamot smell as before, but his disappointment at his own failure settled deep in his bones.

As he picked up his violin and bow, he tried to accept that he was likely never going to meet his housebreaker.  Perhaps, though, that was the whole point.  Perhaps the scientist was simply meant to stay as he was—though now (thanks to his intruder) well cared-for, he would (should) remain quite alone.  The scientist pressed his lips together into a tight line and thought about how he had never really liked people anyway.  He told himself that this was probably for the best. 

He looked to the mantle and at the smiling skull that rested there, dust-free and utterly vacant.  “Where be your gibes now?” he asked it. “Your gambols?  Your songs?  Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?”  The scientist let out a humourless chuckle before continuing (for he had started to wonder what it must be _like_ to have a laugh over dinner).  “Not one _now_ to mock your _own grinning_?”  The skull remained silent as ever.  The scientist sighed and waved his hand wearily.  “Indeed, you and Anderson _would_ make a pair,” he told the skull before turning away to play something long and low and mournful. 

His bow stilled when, by chance, his gaze fell upon his desk.  The screen of the computer shone out in the early morning light that had only just started filling the room.  He was absolutely positive that he had shut the machine down before going to bed the night before; it had been an integral step in his Normal People Bedtime Routine, after all. 

Curious, he strode over to have a closer look.  The screensaver hadn’t even started yet (intruder gone less than five minutes).  He felt the seat of the chair (warm) and sniffed its back (wool, bergamot, evergreen).  On the computer screen, the most recent case notes were out and un-filed, and even more incredibly, the entire thing, nearly every single detail had been typed out in the form of a story.  _The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle_ , it read at the top. 

Yes, the story had the tendency to be overly sentimental, and the writer had left out much of the important data he had recorded.  But it read like something exciting, like the work the scientist did might be meaningful to someone other than his client or himself.  Indeed, despite its gratuitously emotional tone, it was a lovely story, and what was even more—it was about _him_ , about his _work_ , and the scientist found himself uncharacteristically emotional in response. 

He wished there was something, _anything_ he could do to repay his housebreaker, his caretaker, his… blogger?  He read the story again and did the only thing he could think to do to honour the effort—he filled in the questions with his deductive process and added a few more facts to the thing before copying it to his own website and hitting the button that said “publish.”

When he checked his email only a few hours later, his inbox was overflowing with people who had very kind things to say about the story, about his work.  He had more than two dozen people asking for his help with their own mysteries, and at least one or two of those actually appeared interesting enough to pursue. 

That night, as he readied himself and his flat for bed, he felt more gratitude toward his intruder than ever before.  Over two yellow post-it notes from the pad on the desk, he wrote a message and placed it where he supposed the intruder would find it.  The scientist stretched deeply and got under his covers, wondering already to what surprise he would awaken.

=====

When John arrived at Baker Street, he was surprised to find the place nearly as spotless as he left it last time.  He checked the bedrooms and kitchen, the living room and bath, but everything seemed to be in order—his work over before it had even begun.  He tried not to let the sadness of leaving develop too fully.  If the scientist was now able to care for himself properly, John had no more business here, and tonight would be the last time for perhaps a very long time he would be at this flat on Baker Street.  He didn’t want to think about never again returning at all, but that was a real possibility, too.

He made his rounds of the flat once more, stole a glance at the scientist, snoring and snuffling in his bed, and decided to check one last place.  He went to the desk, where the computer’s screen was dark but its motor was still warm and whirring.  He touched his index finger to the little mouse pad, bringing it instantly to life, shining brightly in the dark of the living room.

It was open to a website, _The Science of Deduction_ , and there, just under the title and today’s date, a brand new entry had been posted: “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.”  John smiled widely and read the words he’d only just written the night before.  He worried over one or two awkward phrases that he still didn’t think were quite right, but for the most part, he was proud of his work.  The scientist had indeed typed in his own notes, and the addition of the written-out process by which the scientist analysed all the clues had John shaking his head with wonder. 

When he’d finished reading the story, John could think of nothing to do other than to shut down the computer and go on to his next place.  He didn’t want to; he didn’t want to leave this flat or its scientist.  He hesitated in the desk chair before slowly lowering the screen of the computer.

To his amazement, stuck to the top, right in the middle, were two yellow notes covered in script.  In the scientist’s familiar handwriting, John read:  (first note) _I don’t usually find myself unsure of what to say, and yet…_ (second note) _You have been my very own conductor of light.  What I mean is this—you have made me better. Thank you.  –SH_

John clutched the note in his hand as he walked slowly to the bedroom.  He watched this man, his scientist, Sherlock Holmes, so beautiful in sleep.  He allowed himself just a bit more time _here_ in this cosy little flat in the heart of his favourite city. 

The scientist’s, Sherlock’s, hair was ink-black against the white of his pillow, against the ivory of his skin.   John knew that Sherlock was just a man, but in the soft moonlight, he seemed to glow like something even more magical than himself, and John’s hand had extended before his brain had the good sense to call it back.  His fingertips hovered just above the place where Sherlock’s curls grazed his brow, and John swallowed. 

John wanted to stay.  He wanted to follow this man and learn everything about him; he wanted to know the sound of his voice and the colour of his eyes.  He wanted to share laughter and meals and run through the streets of London with nowhere else to be but at his scientist’s side.  He wanted it more than he wanted to move on.  He would have so many new ways to help people, ways that he could never manage as he was now.  He wanted this possible life more than he’d ever wanted _anything_.

For better or for worse, he made a decision.

John took a breath and carefully pressed his fingers against the warm skin at the scientist’s temple, the soft hair of his fringe tickling John’s knuckles.  John swiped a thumb over one of those impossible cheekbones, and the entire room filled with golden light.  It swirled like a brewing storm before finally concentrating and then absorbing into the place where John’s fingertips were on Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and John watched patiently as he blinked and yawned and stretched. 

The moment Sherlock registered the presence of someone other than himself in his bedroom, he leapt from the bed, instantly switching on the light.  John thought he might have attacked, but he didn’t.  He stayed several paces back, but something like understanding began to spread across his face when he eyed the note still clutched in John’s hand.  Almost sheepishly, John straightened it and set it on the dresser.  Then, John lifted his chin, meeting Sherlock’s narrowed eyes.  John could see their colour now—stunningly pale, silvery blue.  He longed to step forward, closer to Sherlock, but he didn’t think that was wise (he had dusted the Judo certificate himself).

“You know,” John said, aiming to cut the tension.  “I’d wondered what colour your eyes would be.  I had thought brown.”  John shrugged.  “I was wrong.”  John let a small smile twitch at his lips, move into his eyes.

“You?” Sherlock said, both a question and a statement at once.  “ _You’re_ my housebreaker.”  Definitely not a question anymore.

“So it seems,” John said blandly, clasping his hands together behind his back.  He rocked from heel to toe once.  “Do you want a cup of tea?  I rather fancy one myself.”  John did not wait for Sherlock to answer before turning round and heading toward the kitchen.  He heard the soft padding of Sherlock’s bare feet on the tiles behind him. 

He was keenly aware of Sherlock _watching_ him as he pulled the tea things from the cupboard and switched on the kettle.  While he waited for it to boil, he turned toward his very awake and much-quieter-than-he-expected scientist.  “Don’t you have any questions?”

“Who _are_ you?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, right,” John replied.  “John Watson.”  The kettle boiled and John poured water into the teapot.

“Why do you keep breaking into my flat?  _How_ do you keep breaking into my flat?” Sherlock asked, now looking more alert and leaning forward as he waited for answers. 

“Because it’s my job.  Well, _was_ , my job.  Next,” John said as he placed the pot along with the sugar bowl and two mugs on a tray.  He pulled the milk from the fridge, setting that down as well before carrying the lot to the living room.  He set it down on the little round table by the armchairs.  Sherlock sat in the boxy grey one, so that left John with the one opposite. 

“Your job is to break into strangers’ flats and what—do the _clearing up_?” Sherlock’s tone was close to mocking, but John heard amusement there as well. 

John nodded; that seemed like an accurate enough description.  “Pretty much, yeah.”  John pointed to the pot, and Sherlock nodded his head distractedly ( _yes, fine_ ).  John poured him a cup before pouring one for himself.

“What do you mean, _was_?” Sherlock asked as he took a sip.  He hummed in approval and lifted his mug in salute to John.  “Delicious.  Thank you… John.”

John smiled at him again.  “It _was_ my job because after I woke you up, I can’t go back.  I’m stuck here.”

“ _Can’t go back_?”  Sherlock set his cup down and leaned forward a bit more in his chair.

“I don’t know why—it’s just the way the magic works.  I don’t question it—no point.”

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Magic?  _That’s_ your explanation?  Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I thought you might say that; you’re a scientist.  But tell me, do you have a better explanation?”

Sherlock went very quiet in his chair.  His eyes darted very quickly in every direction as he seemed to work through his knowledge, trying to find a sensible, non-magical answer.  “However improbable…,” Sherlock mused, mostly to himself.  He inhaled sharply and refocused on John.  “Okay, so if you are some sort of magical being, then what are you?  A wizard?  A _fairy_?”

“An elf, actually,” John said with a single head nod.

Sherlock let out one dry chuckle.  “And, I’d figured you for a doctor.”

“Interesting,” John said.  “I do have quite a lot of specialised medical training.  Most of my assignments have been to surgeries and to military medical facilities overseas.  I also like to read what I’m sorting; I’ve picked up a few things here and there.”

“An elf,” Sherlock said.

“An elf,” John replied.

“But you’re wearing a _jumper_.  Your ears aren’t pointed.”

“Well, I like jumpers.  And the ear thing is just a myth.”  John waved it off and sipped his tea.

“Elves are short.”

“I _am_ short.”

“Not _that_ short.”

“Yeah, well—you should see the ones that work with Father Christmas.  Over eight foot high, that lot.  And let me tell you, they _can_ throw a party—especially once Laura in the Glitter Division breaks out the Yule Punch.”  John leaned forward conspiratorially.  “Word of advice— _never_ attempt to match drinks with a Christmas elf.  Last year, I woke up in the snow wearing nothing but a pair of red pants made of tinsel and a flashing necklace of multi-coloured fairy lights.  _No_ idea how that had happened.” John kept his face serious, but allowed his eyes to crinkle a bit.

Sherlock laughed.  It was one of the best sounds John had ever heard.  John wanted to hear it again the very moment it had ended, but the room fell into silence.  They both sipped their tea.  It wasn’t a bad silence, but a rather long one. 

“You can’t go back?” Sherlock asked, but it didn’t really sound like a question at all; his voice was nearly gentle, somehow fragile. 

“No,” John said, clearing his throat as his mind wandered momentarily to the struggling little surgery across town and to the military base in Afghanistan.  He stood and placed his mug on the tray.  “I’ll just, er—are you finished?” he asked, indicating Sherlock’s empty mug.  Sherlock nodded, so John took it, their fingers brushing momentarily as Sherlock handed it off.

John busied himself with taking everything back to the kitchen.  Sherlock was right on his heels, hovering  behind him at the sink, close enough that John’s back prickled with the proximity.

“John,” Sherlock said, placing a tentative hand on John’s arm so he would turn around.  John did.  Sherlock swallowed as his face grew serious. “You— _woke me up_.”

“Yes,” John said immediately, though the word sounded a bit manic and jumpy, even to his own ears.  Then, John brought himself up to full height, looking Sherlock directly in the eye.  “Yes,” he repeated, this time the word finding solid ground, sticking just where it should.  “That’s true.  I wanted to stay here.  With you.”

“No one has ever wanted to stay with me before,” Sherlock admitted quietly.

John reached out a hand to brush over Sherlock’s temple again.  This time, though, Sherlock’s brilliant eyes were watching him the entire time.  John smiled up at him, thinking about how wonderful his scientist was. 

Sherlock closed the small distance between them and put his mouth against John’s, kissing him like he asked questions—almost sure of the answer already, substantiating a theory.  Sherlock’s lips were soft and dry and still, but the hand that wound through the short hair at John’s nape was sure and firm.  John pulled him closer, kissed him back, kissed him until he was quite unsure where his body ended and Sherlock’s began, until he knew the exact taste of the skin under his jaw and the way Sherlock’s tongue felt sliding along his own. 

John would have been quite happy to have stayed in the kitchen, kissing his scientist until the sun shone its last rays of light on the earth, but just as Sherlock placed his mouth against the spot just under John’s left ear, the mobile phone in the living room pinged with a message.  Sherlock ignored it in favour of the spot just under John’s right ear, but then the phone began to ring.  Sherlock ignored it still, this time placing two chaste kisses along the line of John’s cheekbone, but when it rang again, John pulled away.

“You probably ought to answer,” he said, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s.

Pulling away just a bit, Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Fine.”

John followed Sherlock back to the living room where Sherlock immediately began pressing buttons on his mobile.  “Double homicide,” he mused.  “House deadbolted from inside, no one in or out.” 

“Helping the police with another one, then,” John said.

“I do enjoy a locked-room mystery,” Sherlock said, smiling more to himself than to John.  It faded after only a couple seconds, but his eyes continued to glitter with amusement.

John returned to the kitchen to continue tidying the tea things (old habits) while Sherlock got dressed.  By the time Sherlock returned to the living room ready to go, John was sat in his armchair, reading a book from the overflowing shelf.  Sherlock twirled himself into his coat and wound a blue scarf around his neck.  As he opened the door to leave, he turned to John, saying, “Well, don’t you _want_ to come?”

“Oh _God, yes_ ,” John replied without a moment’s hesitation, and before he knew it, he was doing exactly what he wanted most—running madly through the streets of London, side-by-side with his scientist.

From that day on, the scientist and the elf shared many exciting adventures together.  The elf was happy, able to help more people than he could have ever possibly imagined, and the scientist was no longer lonely.  One might even say that they lived happily ever after.

==The End==

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lonely Scientist (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/954976) by [Dear_eponine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dear_eponine/pseuds/Dear_eponine)




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